Aaaaaand here we are. Back in town.

When we bundled up our lives six months ago and said farewell to our old life, who could have imagined we’d be back so soon, like the proverbial bad penny?

A pair of little and large vagabonds, we spent a couple of months with a dear friend in Spain and then it was back to my hometown to spend precious time with grandma and great-grandma. But my hometown is small, and all my friends have moved on, so when an old employer called me with a job offer I couldn’t refuse … well, I couldn’t refuse. So here we are.

It’s good to be back in the city again; I love having space and people all around me and mummy friends to share a coffee with, but it does feel odd to have come full circle. I see my old friends when I can, but the little guy is no longer as portable as he once was, so I pretty much have a 7pm curfew – not great for my social life.

Of course, I don’t regret my situation for a minute and I’m hugely grateful for the little man’s presence but … the evenings do get quite lonely. I’m fine with my own company but even I get bored of me seven days a week. And sometimes I’m overwhelmed by the feeling that it’s just me. From paying the bills to organising the entertainment, it’s all on my shoulders.

Last week, when the boy and I were both ill, I realised how fragile our little set-up is: without me to hold it all together … well, there’s no one else there.

Help came in the form of two kind friends who delivered groceries and babysat for a while, along with good old grandma who endured a week of baby bodily fluids erupting from all quarters. But most of my friends have busy lives or families (or both) and grandma has plenty on her plate already. So although I can ask for help in emergencies, sometimes I want someone to pamper me just because.

And when I say ‘pamper’ I don’t mean anything spectacular. My ambitions are fairly modest as far as pampering goes. I’m not after massages and candlelight and roses; I’m thinking more in terms of slapping a solid snack in front of me and talking to me while I eat it. Oh, and holding the wee one while I put the bins out. See? Nothing too extravagant at all.

It is (I imagine) the sort of thing that my other half would do for me, if I had one. And of course, I’d be willing to reciprocate.

Though it’s not that I’m after someone to look after me, because I can perfectly well look after myself. But it’d be nice to have someone to share things with, both good and bad; someone to snuggle up with when it’s cold outside or berate me when I’ve forgotten to buy toothpaste for the third time this week.

So, although a lady with a baby is not (I imagine) the world’s greatest catch, I’ve signed up for a dating site. Again.

… and it’s refreshing to know that even though I’ve been out of circulation for a year or so, my niche fan group remains the same: my first profile views are from a 19 year old and a 57 year old. And the two (two!) guys that I found interesting enough to send a message to both completely ignored me.

So where should I go from here? If you can’t get out in the evening to socialise with adults, your friends don’t know any singles and you don’t get any joy with dating sites, what’s left?

Maybe it really is time to dig out the sandwich board and wander the streets professing my singledom. Or perhaps I could raffle myself off as the booby prize in a charity draw. It may sound far-fetched, but if you’ve got any better ideas, just let me know.